


Forbidden Fruit

by maythefoursbewithyou



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: An AU in which Corey Anderson become an All Black and never left Christchurch, Cats, Corey in contrast is a thieving rascal, Guilt, I need to find a new description for Cozza's physique, M/M, Matty likes wholesome things like gardening and yoga, Neighbours at War AU, Revenge, Smut, an AU in which Matty never quite made the Black Caps, brick shithouse might be wearing thin, grown men being ridiculous, lots of references to christchurch/otautahi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-29 09:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14469999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maythefoursbewithyou/pseuds/maythefoursbewithyou
Summary: There’s something poking between the tree limbs that is definitely not a feijoa. It’s pink, and has five pokey bits. It’s a hand. Matt knocks the stool over as he stands up, outraged.It’s a hand, and it’s wrapped around a feijoa. Someone is thieving from his orchard!‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’ he asks of the hand.The owner of said hand emerges from the shrubbery, wearing a wide smile that can only be described as impish.‘Picking feijoas,’ says the smirker, an instantly recognisable big face with a blond mop and a matching beard.





	1. The Harvest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlbieGeorge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbieGeorge/gifts).



> Thanks are due to Kiwialicat and Silvershroud for their live feedback on the first half of Chapter One.
> 
> This was supposed to be a short one shot but I got carried away, sorry.

As the mornings shorten and crispen, Matthew doesn’t despair the end of summer as some cricketers might. As the last of the Plunket Shield matches ends, he packs his pads, bats and kit away in the shed, and turns his attention to daily jogs through Hagley Park. Every day takes him winding through different tracks, past the serenity of ducks on Victoria Lake, or the carts and clubs at the golf course. But his fondest moments in the park are when he looks up, into the foliage of the oak trees as they drain of chlorophyll, fading viridian to burnt orange to dull brown, and blanket the earth, smothering the acorns as they drop. 

As the lanes of trees throw up their splendour for him, so too he gets a little splendour of a different kind at home, out back in his orchard. The branches of his apple and pear trees bow under the weight of fruit the size of a man’s fist, testament to the loving care he bestows on the trees all spring and summer, when his cricket schedule allows. And then, as the last of the apples fall, he can enjoy the row of feijoa trees that hedges the boundary between his property and that of his new neighbour, to the north. The tiny green balls began their lives as delightful, bushy crimson flowers after christmas. Now, with each dewy morning the green balls swell and extend and push their way into May and ripeness.

One breezy morning, once the last vestiges of his apple and pear harvest are bottled and fermenting in the shed, cider in progress, Matt peers out of his kitchen window and notices the litter of feijoas in the grass, encircling the slender trunks. It’s the moment he’s been waiting for, the fallen fruit heralding that the tiny trees are ready for the autumn harvest. Suddenly there’s a new impetus to his morning routine. He wolfs down his breakfast, vigourously scrubs at his teeth and almost swallows the capful of listerine instead of gargling it. On with some old comfy jeans he can’t bear to part with, and his St Bedes’ 2009 leavers hoody that somehow miraculously still fits him, he unbolts and opens the back door and steps out into a mild but steady northeasterly and treads the garden path. Bucket and stool in hand, he walks beyond the struggling herbs and the resilient brassicas on his left and the drying leaves of the _Malus_ and _Pyrus_ trees on his right, to the northern edge of his section. His face breaks into a naked grin when he reaches his destination. His feijoas look bigger and more bountiful than ever before. 

There are nigh on a dozen trees to pluck from, and he settles his bottom on the stool at the eastern end and gets to work, selecting only the fruit that is beginning to soften and beginning the process of filling his bucket. Idly, he whistles a Lennon/McCartney melody, and dreams of the recipes he’s already printed out from the internet. Feijoa chutney. Hot feijoa crumble, with cream. Banana and feijoa muffins. Feijoa – 

There’s something poking between the tree limbs that is definitely not a feijoa. It’s pink, and has five pokey bits. It’s a hand. Matt knocks the stool over as he stands up, outraged. _It’s a hand, and it’s wrapped around a feijoa_. Someone is thieving from his orchard!

‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’ he asks of the hand.

The owner of said hand emerges from the shrubbery, wearing a wide smile that can only be described as impish.

‘Picking feijoas,’ says the smirker, an instantly recognisable big face with a blond mop and a matching beard. 

You can always trust a rugbyhead to have entitlement issues, Matt thinks to himself. ‘From _my_ trees,’ he protests.

The rugger bugger (Matt knows his name, probably all of New Zealand does, but it is eluding his recall at this point) scoffs. ‘They’re hanging over my property. I figure they’re fair game.’ As if to punctuate his point, he grabs another and shoves it in his gob. 

‘You’re not supposed to eat the skin, asshat,’ Matt shoots him a withering look, his usually even temper growing less and less forgiving as he watches the travesty unfold before him. Big rugger mug with a whole feijoa inside it, masticating and making a mockery of the esteemed tradition of eating feijoas.

‘Hey,’ the rugger mouths between chewing motions, ‘I’m a rebel, I eat how I wanna.’

Matt can only just make out what he’s saying. ‘I had plans for that fruit. Plans that didn’t involve sharing it with you. And please don’t talk with your mouth full. It makes me sick.’

‘ _It makes me sick_ ’, the rugger says, putting on what Matt can only assume is an imitation of his speech (I don’t sound like that! He protests, inwardly). ‘Look, _mate_ , if you don’t want me eating your fruit, make sure it’s not hanging over my property. That’s the unspoken rule of neighbourly conduct, since time immemorial.’

Unspoken rule of neighbourly conduct since time immemorial. So the git speaks fancy. Matt could wager he went to Christ’s College, or worse, Christchurch Boys’ High School, before his illustrious career as a brick shithouse on legs. 

‘Well, “neighbour”’, Matt says, complete with air quotes, ‘you just pissed on my territory.’ One thing is certain. Corey Anderson (Matt finally remembers his name), lock for the All Blacks, has soured the sweetness of his feijoa harvest. Matt gathers up his stool and his bucket of barely a dozen fruit and flounces back up the garden path. Once back in his kitchen, he asks Siri for details of the next Astanga class in Christchurch. He’s going to need to yoga this encounter out of his system. 

*

Matt pulls up inside the garage of his Fendalton home a few hours later, feeling spacey, long and limbre, his mood smoother for stretching and for the focused relaxation of Savasana. He doesn’t like thinking ill of people, but this Anderson fellow really got to him, in a way that Matt is not usually gotten to. He took extra care, during his yogic affirmations, to turn the negative feelings out. ‘May I be well,’ he said to himself, following his instructor’s encouragement, ‘May Corey Anderson be well. May I be well. May Corey Anderson be well.’ It worked. Matt takes his shoes off and re-enters his home, feeling positively disposed toward his northward neighbour. He goes to the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich.

The sun leaves a shiny reflection on the lid of his laptop, atop the breakfast bar, and a glimmer of curiosity awakens in him. He spins the slim computer to face him, lifts the lid, and hits the power up button. 

Ten minutes later his sandwich and hunger are extinguished and he is back on his stool in the orchard, plucking ripening sacks of sugar from their leafy homes, under the noonday sun. He allows his mind and his eyes to wander, to peer at the stately home on the other side of his row of trees. It’s at least twice the size of his own humble abode and takes up what for most people would a good one and a half sections worth of space. The man has a lot of lawn to boot, cut across by a babbling brook lined with perfectly manicured conifers. This is what an All Blacks contract can get you, apparently. According to Google. Not that Matt was investigating how much money Corey Anderson earns, of course. Oh, all right, he was doing exactly that. And confirming that Anderson did in fact attend Christchurch Boys’ High School. Discovering that the man was a Deputy Head Boy there, and is the progeny of a Commonwealth Games athlete and an international netballer.

His thoughts linger long, too long, on the tooth-chipped, mischevous grin, that this morning had infuriated him so.

The next day, Saturday, Matt’s copy of _The Press_ never arrives.

The Monday edition of said local newspaper also fails to show. He calls to inquire whether his subscription has lapsed. ‘No,’ the receptionist at _The Press_ tells him. ‘It looks like your subscription is up to date. Can I confirm your delivery address with you? We have you on file as living at ----------- Street.’

It’s the correct address.

Meanwhile, the north-facing branches of his feijoa trees are mysteriously bare of fruit. Coincidence? Not bloody likely.

Matt rolls out his yoga mat in his loungeroom, flowing through cats, cows, downward dogs and crows, but none of the Warriors, one two or three, can allay his suspicions, or his annoyance.

He resolves to find out once and for all why his morning paper is disappearing, and sets his alarm for 3am.

*

Tonight, the temperature has plummetted into single digits, and wrapped in several layers of fluffy sweatshirting, Matt Henry kneels on his grandma’s crocheted woollen blanket and waits. He counts the moments passing, watching in concealment behind the sturdy trunk of his magnolia, amidst hebes. It’s cold enough that he can see his breath fog up as it escapes his lips, under the soft peach illumination of a street lamp.

Around 3.30am, the paperboy pushes a folded, gladwrapped copy of _The Press_ into his letterbox. Has it only been half an hour? With a corner of his sleeve, Matt wipes some moisture from the tip of his nose, sniffs, and keeps waiting, with all the patience and focus of an experienced yoga practitioner. As the minutes drop by like a leaky fawcett, he switches from lotus position to kneeling and back again, before realising this is a perfect opportunity to use his time productively, with his go-to gym workout: hip thrusts and squats. Hey, it’s cold and cricket season is over, and there’s nothing more frightening to an athlete in his prime than being able to pinch an inch. He complements the squats with a little yoga, just a few standing and sitting poses, nothing too dynamic or conspicuous. He’s balancing carefully in tree pose when the newspaper bandit sneaks by, top to toe in black: beanie, gloves, and all. The only part of his body not exposed to the pre-dawn chill is his face, from his eyebrows to his mouth. Even his chin is obscured by folds of a scarf, but the husky rascal is identifiable by the uneven front teeth set in a wicked smile that broadens as he tiptoes onto Matt’s driveway, unlatches the back covering of his mailbox and absconds with the daily newsrag. 

Matt’s chest starts heaving in rage and all mindfulness is out the window. His concentration is broken; the left foot he has planted against his right inner thigh slips and with that, his balance is gone and he falls into the hebe bush with a dramatic rustle.

‘Who’s there?’ Anderson starts, and pivots to take one last look up the driveway, but Matt is stock still, cuddling his shrubbery. ‘Must just be a possum,’ Anderson says to himself with a shrug, and, with the newspaper tucked under his arm, he swaggers up the footpath inflating his chest like he owns everything on the street.

Once Corey is out of earshot, Matt stands himself back up and wipes dewy hebe leaves off his front. He huffs and puffs, inflamed with the confirmation of what he knew all along. Yogic enlightenment and forgiveness be damned. This is war. Matt Henry is going to teach this jumped-up rugbyheaded prat a lesson he’ll never forget.


	2. The Fermentation

The perfect revenge turns out to not be quite as straightforward as Matt anticipated. There’s a still morning on which he conspires to sneak onto Corey Anderson’s expansive immaculate lawn with a spray dispenser of Roundup, ready to spell the word ‘DOUCHEBAG’ in his grass with weedkiller. But alas, as he’s about to penetrate the row of feijoa trees and steal onto Anderson’s property, he spies the man himself at his southern-facing ranch-slider, sipping at a mug of something and surveying his kingdom. 

Matt beats out a crouching retreat.

Not to worry. He has had plenty of practice at biding his time, ask any of his Canterbury team-mates. Give him a flat batter-friendly track and he’ll keep running in, watching and waiting for the inevitable mistimed shot. Matt credits all his patience to the yoga. Something doesn’t go his way? No point in cursing and sledging. You just fill up your lungs with some Pranayama, right down to your diaphragm, and keep at it. 

The following weekend, his best friends Tom and Henry invite him to a rugby match at the AMI Stadium, out of politeness, knowing he will respectfully decline. He’s not a fan of rugby at any rate, and more importantly, it’s his sister-in-law’s birthday, and he has a family dinner to attend, at Tutto Benne in Merivale, one suburb east of where he lives. It’s a cheerful evening of catchups, wine, pasta and tiramisu, and by the time he’s safely ensconced on his couch afterward with a full heart and an even fuller belly, he’s figured out how to pick his moment.

Flip goes the laptop lid again. Matt googles the All Blacks, which takes him to their home page. He clicks on the schedule, and there it is: the team, including Corey Anderson, will be heading to Auckland for a test match at Eden Park, most likely in a few days. This is Matt’s chance to enact The Big Payback. 

Sleep comes easy. Matt finds that if he closes his eyes and imagines the fury on Anderson’s face when he returns to behold the destruction of his perfect lawn, he can achieve inner peace.

On his second attempt, Matt has no trouble sneaking through his feijoas onto Corey Anderson’s lawn. He has his overalls on, a mask over his face and rubber gloves for the adventure. Right there, in the middle of the lawn, Matt lets loose with the weedkiller, spraying a wobbly capital D, followed by a more steady O, then a U, all the way down the line to the G, which comes out misshapen and bigger than the other letters, and etches into the lip where the grass descends into the creek.

Matt steps back to admire his handiwork. It’s rough, but it gets the message across. He turns the nozzle around on his herbicide to childproof it.

Two days later, Corey Anderson’s lawn is yellowing in the shape of an obscenity. Matt snickers to himself. The big ape is going to shit kittens.

‘Miaow?’ 

Matt almost jumps out of his skin. There, at his feet is a tiny ginger tabby, gazing up at him as if to beg for friendship. The little guy couldn’t be more than four months old. 

The wee kitten nudges at his trousers and chirrups. Matt’s heart squeezes. A lot. He bends down, gives the orange roughie a scratch under his chin, and is rewarded with more nuzzling and a faint but distinct purr. 

The tag on the kitten’s collar confirms that he lives here, at the Anderson estate, and his name is Miaow-zebub. Matt snorts at the pun, despite himself. 

Presumably someone is feeding this tiny tiger in Anderson’s absence? Matt checks the entrance points to the house, just to be certain. Sure enough, there’s a cat flap at the front door, on the other side of the house. When Matt looks inside it, he can see a full bowl of biscuits and a cup of water, so despite his master being out of town, Miaow-zebub is most definitely being looked after. Still, Matt hopes that the little guy is safe from other cats. He’d hate to see him mauled by a mean tom.

Come to think of it, it’s downright irresponsible to leave this little guy to fend for himself the way Corey Anderson has.

This is what Matt tells himself, when he purchases sachets of meat, pet milk and a plethora of catnip toys from the pet shop, later that day. It’s how he justifies it as he uses a bowl of chicken and gravy catfood to lure little Miaow-zebub into the warm, inviting cosiness of his own house. 

A smile of satisfaction spreads across Matt’s face as the orange kitten devours the chicken dinner. This is the revenge to end all revenges.

*

With the hulk next door away on doofus duties, once more, order is restored to Fendalton. Matt’s morning paper is reaching it’s rightful destination. Between Miaow-zebub, Vinyasa Flow classes and healthy portions of sweet feijoa crumble fresh from the oven and dripping with cream, Matt’s feeling once again as though he has autumn all stitched up. 

Miaow-zebub is making himself right at home in his new digs. In daylight hours, he scratches up the furniture, laps hungrily at his saucers of food and pet milk, and periodically goes a bit mental over one or other of the catnip toys. He’s taken a particular shine to a little rainbow crocheted ball, packed full of dried catnip and attached to a string, and whiles away the afternoons batting it between his paws, bouncing after it and trying to gnash it apart with his sharp little kitten canines. Evenings are spent curled up on Matt’s lap, sleeping it off as Matt flicks through the channels on his tv remote, browsing for gardening shows, cooking shows and nature documentaries. One night, Miaow-zebub (Miaow for short) even cocks his head up from repose to watch a documentary on the flora and fauna of the Sonoran desert. He swivels his tiny fuzzy chin, entranced by a scene of prairie dogs chasing each other. Eventually, Matt tires out and Miaow follows him to the bedroom, leaps up onto the king sized bed and burrows under the blanket, little spoon to Matty’s big spoon. 

Stealing Corey Anderson’s cat turned out to be the best life decision Matt’s ever made. 

Although it does have some drawbacks. One: Miaow attempting to scale his legs while he’s in the midst of his sun salutes. Little nine-lives bastard has some badass baby-claws. Two: coming back from the toilet to find Miaow face-first in his bowl of crumble. Three: his penchant for using Matt’s neck as a catbed.

Of course, all feline transgressions are forgiven with one glance into those big, butter-wouldn’t-melt green eyes.

It isn’t long before such sweet domestic scenes are punctured.

‘Miaow-zebub! Miaow-zebub! Here, kitty, kitty!’ 

A deep, worried voice resonates across the orchard, into Matt’s kitchen window one afternoon, where Matt is sealing up his jars of feijoa chutney by the sink.

‘Miaow-zebub! Come home, little one!’

Then: ‘Oh, what the ever-loving fuck?’

(Matt could bet Anderson’s just seen the artwork on his lawn).

‘Miaow-zebub!’ Anderson calls again for his cat. 

Miaow-zebub comes hurtling up the hallway with some enthusiastic bleats, responding to the call of his original human companion. He gets as far as the closed back door and cries to be let out, looking up at Matt expectantly with eyes like moons in his orange, whiskery face. 

But Matt is unmoved. How could anyone go away for a week and leave a baby cat to wander the neighbourhood? Corey Anderson is a negligent parent and does not deserve this little ray of sunshine, this little lion, this _schnookum wookum_.

And Miaow-zebub... Matt returns his fluffy gaze with a frown. After everything they’ve been through together these past three days, and Miaow-zebub wants to up and leave, slink back to a daddy who doesn’t even have the decency to look after him properly? 

‘I gave you a heater, cuddles, food and love. And this is the thanks I get?’

He’s going to have to up the charm offensive. In the evening, Matt begins building an adventure playground for Miaow. Multiple levels of carpet-coated perches that lead all the way to the ceiling, tubes big enough for a small animal to walk through, and little bridges. In a matter of hours, his lounge resembles the final scene in _The Labyrinth_. And Miaow-zebub is impressed enough, but any time Matt moves toward an exit point, the wee fellow is there, almost tripping up his feet, and howling to be set free. 

Not least because Corey Anderson appears to be doing hourly circuits of the block, calling and calling to his absent kitten. 

The hollering is positively plaintive in the morning. It must have been a rough night, because the golden-haired huskmeister didn’t even bother to pilfer Matt’s paper. Notably, every power pole on every street within a kilometre radius is plastered with ‘MISSING’ posters, imploring somebody, anybody to find the wayward ginger and return him home. There’s a rather generous reward being offered for the favour.

Matt folds himself into child’s pose after a few downward dogs, for a moment of peace, but Corey Anderson’s anguished bellows for Miaow-zebub ring out in his head, and tug at his heart. 

‘I’m a monster,’ he says, not meaning to speak out loud, but the magnitude of what he has done forces his mouth open. 

And that is how Matt Henry comes to be crossing Corey Anderson’s spoiled lawn, Miaow-zebub on his shoulder, to arrive at the ranch slider. He raps at the double-glazing. 

Anderson answers in sweatpants and a hoody and combs his quiff out of his field of vision with the fingers of his left hand. The skin around his eyes looks puffy and red, but about ten tonnes of tension tumbles out of his broad shoulders the moment he focuses on the kitten.

‘You found him? Fuck, thank you. Was fearing the worst, mate,’ he says, softly, as Matt hands over the kitten.

‘Yeah, ahh, I think he might have snuck into my garage. Must have got shut in there when I came home from the gym yesterday.’ Matt speaks quickly to expel the unnatural weight of lies from his mouth as fast as he can. He fails to make eye contact.

‘Miaow!’ says Miaow-zebub in protest at all the man-handling, but all the same, Corey holds his kitten in front of his face, and says to him, ‘What are you doing getting into the neighbour’s garage eh? Looking for trouble?’ He chuckles. ‘Chip off the old block, this one.’ And then he sets the kitten back down on his grey carpet, and the wee fuzzball scarpers off, probably in search of treats. ‘Thanks. Christ, I was worried.’ 

He holds out his hand, and Matt gives it the limp shake of the guilty.

‘What’s your name? I’d like to know who I’m thanking.’

‘Matt,’ Matt mutters, still not able to meet Anderson’s gaze.

‘Corey. Can I make you a coffee, tea or something else?’ he offers, all easy gentlemanly manners, which just makes Matt’s shame all the less bearable.

‘Er, no thanks. Got to run some errands in town.’

‘Well at least hang on a minute, and I’ll go get your reward.’ The brawny blond spins on his heel and exits the room, but Matt doesn’t wait for his return. He lets himself out of the ranch slider and sprints home. 

*

Business as usual. The morning paper arrives like clockwork. Jogs, gym, yoga classes. A sunny day or two helping his brother paint houses for some extra cash. A weekend jaunt with Henry and Tom to Akaroa, which involves a boat ride on the harbour and helpings of wine at the hotel to warm them all up afterward.

Matt finds himself privy to a dissection of the last All Blacks game from his friends, only this time, he is able to contribute something to the conversation.

‘You remember when you guys were over to watch cricket that time? The last Black Caps ODI. And there was a moving truck unloading next door? Well,’ Matt rests his wine glass on the table for in the hotel bar for emphasis. ‘Corey Anderson is my new neighbour.’

‘Oh really? He went to my high school,’ Tom says. ‘A few years above me, but I remember him. Built like a bulldozer. One of those irritating people who’s good at everything.’

‘I hope you’re brown-nosing some free match passes out of him, mate,’ Henry adds, thoroughly unimpressed by Tom’s high school memories, and clearly concerned with how he might benefit from the connection. 

‘Genius, Toey, genius!’

‘Yeah, hang on guys. I’ve only met him a couple of times and I wouldn’t exactly say we’ve hit it off. Besides, I think I like his cat better than I like him.’

As for the thieving, the vandalised lawn and the cat-napping, Matt doesn’t divulge any of it to them. He’s doing his best to put that whole sorry saga out of his mind. Only, come Monday evening, there’s a ringing at Matt’s doorbell, and it’s the death knell to his willful amnesia. He opens the door as far as the chain will allow. There’s Anderson, making tracky-dackies look oddly inviting. (All that sweatshirting material looks so warm and cosy. Nothing to do with who’s wearing them, or what it might feel like to – yeah never mind. Matt isn’t sure where that thought came from.) He’s carrying a Barkers shopping bag full of newspapers in one hand, and in the other, a cake tin.

‘Hey Matt. Listen, sorry to drop by uninvited. Mind if I come in?’

There’s nowhere to go. Matt is cornered, and far too polite for his own good. 

‘Miaow?’ 

Miaow-zebub is waiting on the doorstep too, undoing Matt with characteristic adorable. He shimmies through the ajar door, to brush himself against Matt’s leg like they’re the oldest friends. Matt unchains the door, flings it wide and beckons Corey in too. 

While Miaow-zebub is steady running around the house as though he owns it, Matt angsts over the appropriate way to entertain his other guest, who is not exactly unwelcome, but hardly welcome either.

‘Cup of tea?’ he offers, more to fill in the silence than out of neighbourly good feeling. At any rate, with Miaow-zebub smooching every corner, Matt is half resigned to this being more than a passing call.

‘Milk with two sugars,’ says Corey, and so Matt leads him into the kitchen and tells him to take a seat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. 

‘Actually, do you mind if I make myself at home?’ Corey counters.

Matt shoots him a pointed glance, as he clicks the lever on the kettle to “on”.

‘ _Actually_ , I do. I mean, come on. Haven’t you taken enough liberties?’

Corey clears his throat. Then he sighs, and shifts weight from one foot to another, shuffling uncomfortably. ‘That came out wrong. It’s just, I made a cake, and rather than bothering you about a plate and a knife while you’re making tea, I thought I would, you know, find my own way around. If that’s okay with you?’

Wow. He bakes. That’s unexpected. Not cute. Just unexpected. 

‘I don’t want cake. I want my feijoas back,’ snaps Matt.

‘It’s really good cake though.’ He sets the cake tin on the breakfast bar. It’s in one of those Kiwiana baking containers, with an image of puppies on the lid which he removes. ‘Feijoa cake with lemon icing. By way of apology. At least try a piece?’ He holds it up so Matt can get a look at his handiwork.

Matt pictures himself eating a slice out of Corey’s hand. A big thumb wiping crumbs from his cheek. Like one still in a slide show, he tries to click the frame away, but the image lingers, frustrating him. 

The kettle begins to whoosh. Matt takes a pair of mugs from the cupboard, and some bread-and-butter plates. He fishes in a cutlery drawer for a knife, and a pair of forks, which he abruptly dumps in front of Corey, by way of reply, before shoving the drawer closed with a rattling clang.

‘I brought your newspapers over too. On the off chance that you wanted them back, even though they’re full of old news. There’s a photo of me in the sports news from a couple of weeks back, and I know how popular I am with you.’ He’s trying to jest, Matt supposes, judging from the fact that one corner of his mouth is turning upward, but Matt is not in a laughing mood. He throws tea bags into a teapot and leans back against the sink, the better to fix Anderson with a cool stare. 

Corey is busy segmenting the cake. But when he lifts his chin, and his light blue eyes meet Matt’s gaze, he blinks, and he feels his face relax into a soft smile. 

Matt wants to maintain his ire. This is Corey Anderson, after all, arrogant as every other rugby player and a thief to boot. But instead he finds he’s run out of vinegar. It’s just... there’s an openness to Corey’s face, and a gentle amiability that’s impossible to maintain anger at. And this is good cake. _Really_ good cake. It’s all soft and fluffy, and the taste of the feijoas is subtle, but not too subtle. And the thick lemon icing just melts in his mouth.

‘Not just a pretty face, are you?’ he says.

‘Huh?’ Corey starts.

‘Your baking. It’s really good.’ Matt says, and greedily consumes another mouthful. 

Corey beams. ‘I learned from Mum. She’s the best.’

The kettle clicks off, the raging boil starts to ease and still. Matt fills his teapot with hot water. ‘Shall we sit?’ He nods toward the dining table, behind Corey.

Corey takes a seat at the big table of oak, resting his plate of cake down in front of him, while Matt makes a show of being host, and brings over the mugs, teapot, milk and sugar, and finally, his own helping of cake.

‘I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,’ Corey says, when Matt too is sitting at table. ‘It was wrong of me to take your fruit and your newspapers. It won’t happen again. I’ve been such a prat. And I also want to say thank you, for finding my little guy and bringing him home. I’m not sure I deserve it, after being such a shitty neighbour, but I’m grateful you did.’

Too guilt-stricken to reply, all Matt is capable of doing is shovelling a couple more forkfuls of cake into the hole in his reddening face. It’s as delicious as this situation is awkward.

‘So please,’ Corey carries on, after a couple of heartbeats worth of silence, ‘if there is anything I can do to thank you, to make up for the inconvenience I’ve caused, just let me know.’

They eat in silence, Matt not trusting himself to make eye contact again. 

Corey’s plate is soon empty, and he sets his fork down with a ting. ‘Matt. I’ve been meaning to ask, mate. Last week, you didn’t happen to notice someone with Roundup trespassing on my property, did you?’

Matt nearly chokes on a mouthful.


	3. The Oxidation

The conversation plays over again in Matt’s dreams, but where Real Corey scooped up his kitten and walked home after finishing his cuppa, Dream Corey offers thanks of a different kind, working a trail of kisses from Matt’s lips down his throat. The Corey of his unconscious undoes the fly on Matt’s jeans and slips a hot hand into his underwear. He strokes and teases his cock until Matt finds himself waking damp in his own sweat and come. 

A teenager all over again, he thinks to himself as he bundles up his bedsheets and deposits them in the washing machine. Although it’s somewhere between 3 and 4 am, he finds himself peckish after the linen change, so while thick droplets of rain slap down on his roof as if gravity weren’t enough of a motivator, Matt hunkers down on another slice of the cake that the guy next door made for him.

It’s a move he thinks better of upon waking, having been plagued by the sort of dream one has when one eats too much before sleeping: a dream in which he flattened Miaow-zebub while backing out of his garage. He picked the spasming furbody up in his arms and sobbed as the life drained out of him. Then a scowling neighbour came sauntering onto his property, arms bulging in a muscle t and fists bunched up. The rest of the dream is of himself fleeing from Corey, who’s furious, and closely resembles The Hulk next time he dares look over his shoulder in terror.

One of the mental goals of yoga is to be fully present and in one’s body, experiencing each moment. Not a problem, usually. But since the second dream, especially, Matt spends each drawn-out minute of his day chasing remorse. His actions have made him small in his own eyes, his stomach churns constantly with the unease of the truths he hasn’t told. 

He can’t meditate this away. Somehow, he needs to make it right. 

*

Once more through a gap in his trees and up the Anderson lawn, his cellphone torch lighting a path for him, putting a shimmer in the wet foliage. For politeness’ sake, Matt walks right around the house to the front door, instead of opting for the convenience of the ranch slider. There are some depressions in the grass, where today’s intermittent rain has collected, and Matt’s trainers get soaked through to his socks, the result of unwittingly stepping in a few puddles. Oh well, he shrugs, this has to be done and done properly. No short cuts. 

He stows his phone back in his pocket, and rings the doorbell, half hoping that Corey isn’t home, the half of him whose short term thinking landed him in this mess in the first place.

After what feels like an eternity, Corey opens the door, in dress pants and a black shirt, looking and smelling like he’s got somewhere else to be. ‘Matt!’ he exclaims in surprise. ‘I thought you were – never mind. Come in!’ he says, with the warmth of sincerity.

Matt hesitates. ‘Are you sure? You look like you’re heading out.’

‘I am, or I was. But now you’re here.’ He smiles as he runs a hand through his thick crop of pale hair. ‘I’ll just be a moment,’ he says, and takes his phone out of his back pocket, and fires away a text. Matt seizes the opportunity to remove his soggy shoes, pairing them up on the porch. 

‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Corey gestures into his hallway, ushering Matt inside.

‘Ah, I won’t stay long. I just wondered if we could chat?’

Corey shrugs. ‘Sure. Follow me.’ Corey leads him into his inordinately large kitchen. 

‘Have you eaten?’ Corey asks.

‘Ah, yeah,’ says Matt.

‘I’m going to order pizza,’ Corey tells him. ‘Sure you don’t want anything?’

‘I’m good.’ The words come out higher, and sharper than Matt intends, belying his nerves. 

‘You know where the lounge is,’ he says. ‘Make yourself at home.’

The corridor leading to the lounge is lined with All Black jerseys, framed and mounted. The thick thermal drapes in the lounge are still open. Matt walks up to the ranch slider, looking back towards his own house, seeing a great deal of dark and shadow and his outside light aglow. After admiring the mysteries of night a moment, he makes his way to the sofa and props himself on the edge of the seat, knees pointing to the ceiling.

A few moments pass and then Corey joins him in the living room, with pint glasses and a couple of bottles of beer which have now had their bottletops removed. Corey sets it all down on his glass coffee table, and begins to pour the alcohol. He passes one glass to Matt and reclines comfortably on the couch, stretching one arm along the ridge of the seatback.

‘Thanks. And, um, sorry for ruining your plans,’ Matt says, ‘You may still be able to get to wherever you were going. I don’t imagine I will stay long.’

‘Meh. It wasn’t important. Plus, it’s nice to have visitors. Wouldn’t you agree, Miaow-zebub?’ He looks around for the growing feline who is nowhere in sight. 

‘To Miaow-zebub,’ Matt toasts, and the pair clink their glasses together, and savour a taste of the hoppy draught. 

‘On that note,’ Matt continues, ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘Oh?’ Corey eyes him quizzically. 

With all the courage and self-responsibility he can muster, Matt turns to Corey and for once looks him directly in the eye. The confession comes tumbling out. 

‘It was me. All of it. I killed your grass in the shape of the word “DOUCHEBAG”. And that’s not even the worst of it. While you were worrying what happened to your cat, whether or not he was still alive, I knew exactly where he was, because he was in my house. I stole him while you were away. I came here tonight to tell you the truth, and to tell you I’m sorry. I –‘

Corey jumps to his feet, his mouth twisting and his nostrils flaring. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Get out of my house.’

Matt leaves his beer on the coffee table and hotfoots it out the ranch slider in damp sock feet, not even bothering to go to the front door and retrieve his trainers. He doesn’t need to be told twice.


	4. The Tasting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for AlbieGeorge, first and foremost, because your drabbles make me babble.
> 
> I am dedicating this also to Kiwialicat and Silvershroud, who have welcomed this interloper into their city with open arms, and my, what a city it is. Thank you, my fine beautiful friends.

At home, Matt showers, partly to warm up his cold toes, but mostly to sluice the dirt of disapproval from his skin. When he’d thought the likely scenarios through, he knew full well that this – being kicked out by a justifiably pissed off Corey - was one possible outcome of not very many. It isn’t as though he was hoping for an all-is-forgiven, lets-be-friends response: he’d gone next door with the sole object of doing the right thing. What he didn’t anticipate is how unbearable it feels to have disappointed someone who’s good opinion you didn’t know you desired. If he felt small before, he feels miniscule now.

Most probably, Corey Anderson will never speak a friendly word to him again. The thought chafes at him, the ache of potentiality when it’s destroyed. This is what it’s like, he thinks, to live with the consequences of bad decisions. I need to make better ones. No more going off un-yogaed. 

Days pass and shorten to a handful of hours, the sky deepening navy well before the five o’clock rush. Frosts restrict the bounty of Matt’s garden, leaving only the hardiest of greens: kale, broccoli, cauliflower, pak choi and cabbage. His carrots, turnips and radishes are extending shoots up and out, trying to catch the meek sunlight as best they can. Gardening gloves and fork at the ready, Matt digs and sows and pulls weeds. He turns the compost, and then digs it into a patch he intends to prepare for spring planting. In yoga, he stretches up to the sky like his carrot tops, but where they are striving for light, he’s aiming for the enlightenment he lost sight of not long ago.

It’s not as solitary a life as it sounds. He keeps a steady social calendar, weekends and dinners with family. The odd engagement party and an uncle’s 50th. There’s a stringent winter training schedule for all the Canterbury Kings boys, but somewhere amidst all of that, Matt still finds time for a little road trip to Hanmer Springs with Tom and Toey for a soak in the hot pools and a pub dinner with many dark beers and some very competitive pool at the hotel afterward. Nonetheless, when back at his home in Fendalton, Matt feels the solitude of his living situation keenly. On occasion, he has the pleasure of seeing a ginger feline friend perching precariously on a branch of one of his apple trees, now starkly bare. ‘Miaow,’ Miaow-zebub acknowledges him. Matt sinks his gardening fork into the earth, pulls himself up to full height and removes his gloves, and takes a pause from his work to pat and scratch at Miaow-zebub’s orange tabby stripes, and marvel at his growth. He seems to be growing sideways as much as he is lengthways. Good to know he’s not starving, Matt supposes, idly wondering how many homes the little opportunist is getting fed at. He hasn’t time to wonder for long though, as the booming voice of the 'National Hero' next door interrupts the reunion, to summon Miaow-zebub back to his residence.

It was nice while it lasted, Matt sighs.

And this is how Matt comes to be at the SPCA in Hornby, his heart pierced by the countless bleats of furry friends in need of homes. It’s a tough decision, he’d happily take them all home, but he settles on a sleek black kitten with white socks and a spot on her face, whose eyes say they can see the secrets of Matt’s soul and she’s judging him hard out. The deal is sealed with a small sum of money and a promise that he will feed her only top of the line cat food and keep her indoors until he has her spayed at 6 months.

She sniffs at her new home in the burbs with imperiousness, as if she’d never been abandoned in her short life, and her purr breathes new life into Matt, loudly, as her tiny claws knead the duvet of his bed in the cold of a Canterbury winter night. 

He names her Shuri. 

*

There are chance encounters with the All Black next door. The first takes place a few weeks after Matt’s confession and subsequent ejection. It’s the weekly grocery shop at Merivale Fresh Choice, and Matt pushes his trolley around the end of the confectionery aisle into the baking aisle, only to spy a burly man in trademark sweats with a quiff that seems to positively explode out of his forehead, down the other end. He’s got a packet of something or other in his hand and looks deep in consideration. All of a sudden, Matt’s face is furiously hot and he’s conscious of the sound of his heart pumping hard. He takes his trolley into the next aisle over. Feminine hygiene. The perfect place to calm the fuck down. ‘Pranayama,’ he tells himself, ‘Pranayama.’ Breath after breath until he’s back to equilibrium and thinking clearly again, although his cheeks are still hot to touch. He wheels down to the deodorant, picking out something that boldly declares that if he buys it he will never sweat again or whatever, and then some dental floss, and then he’s on to the next aisle, making a mental note to go back to aisle five when he’s finished. 

The penultimate leg of his shop is his favourite: the boutique foods section at the western edge of the supermarket. He’s been known to completely lose track of time here, as he picks up jars of paste labelled in south east Asian scripts that he can’t decipher, and imagines what could be inside them. Overpriced paleo mueslis that he could probably make himself for considerably cheaper. Chutneys that he reads the labels of comprehensively, soaking up culinary ideas. Today, he’s distracted by the artisan chocolate: so many kinds, in bright, colourful packaging. Companies with names like Pana, Ocho, Wellington Chocolate, and one called Loving Earth that today has particularly snagged his attention. He can’t decide whether to put Banoffee Bang Bang or Salted Caramel Swayzee in his cart. 

‘Excuse me,’ a man behind him says, quietly, and Matt is prompted to realise he is obstructing the aisle with his trolley and his deliberating. He looks up to offer apology and of course, of course it’s Corey Anderson. Who better to block the path of than someone he’s already wronged. Corey gives a start of recognition. ‘Matt,’ he says, in cool acknowledgement, while Matt mutters his sorries and backs his wheels out of the narrow aisle, face aflame all over again. He’s in such a hurry to check out that he completely forgets the cocoa and flour he needed back in aisle five.

Two more chance meetings happen in the fullness of June, in quick succession. One fine afternoon, Matt drives up the Cashmere hills to Sign of the Takahe, his object to stroll to Sign of the Kiwi, beneath the Sugarloaf peak, for fresh air and the views of the city to the north and Lyttelton Harbour to the southeast. He takes his hiking shoes; the Harry Ell track is muddy of late, especially since the wildfires of February 2017. With so much tree life burned away, there is nothing to absorb the moisture when it rains, and on wet days the track itself becomes a stream, leaving a sloppy mess on sunnier days. He and Corey cross paths under the majesty of Sugarloaf, near Matt’s destination. Corey acknowledges him with a ‘Hi,’ his face neutral, unreadable, and all that Matt can make out is his own chagrinned expression reflected in Corey’s sponsorship deal sunglasses. 

‘Hi,’ Matt replies, and they keep walking. But Matt can’t resist turning his head back, although why he wants to heap himself with another helping of guilt he isn’t sure. He catches sight of the broad shoulders, but Corey’s looking backward too, so Matt quickly turns away. 

Probably a contemptuous glare, Matt assumes.

Two days later, Matt is returning home from an afternoon run around Hagley Park, rounding Fendalton Road onto his own street, when right before him appears a little ginger cat on a lead. Matt only just has time to stop running, preventing himself from trampling the little animal. It’s Miaow-zebub, and Corey Anderson seems to be taking his kitten for a walk, the way dog-people walk their dogs. Miaow-zebub doesn’t flinch; he must have heard Matt’s footfalls and anticipated him coming. He stops, and chirrups at Matt, and, almost instinctually, Matt bends down to let him nuzzle his hand, which turns into leg-bunting, Miaow-zebub craning his chin to expose his neck for a scratch. He’s slimmer than last they met.

Matt dares to speak to Miaow’s pet human. ‘He seems happy.’

‘He’s that,’ Corey agrees. ‘Not so happy about the new diet though. Who can blame him?’

Matt gestures at the leash. ‘This is an interesting set up,’ he remarks.

‘I didn’t have a choice. He follows me everywhere. I figured, if you can’t beat ‘em, invite ‘em along.’ 

‘Pussywhipped!’ Matt smirks.

The corners of Corey’s mouth ease into a knowing smirk. ‘Takes one to know one.’

There’s a moment’s quiet. Matt finishes off Miaow’s chin-scratch and stands up. ‘Have a good day,’ he says, and makes the last few blocks for home. 

Have a good day? Matt quizzes himself. Who even says that, aside from retail assistants?

Still, he allows himself a hopeful smile. The ice would seem to be thawing.

Even so, the clang of the doorbell that evening is a complete surprise, and you could knock Matt over with a feather when he opens it to find Corey there, once again with Miaow-zebub in tow, who eagerly bounds inside.

‘Is he neutered?’ Matt asks, immediately concerned for his little Shuri. 

Corey bows his head in assent. ‘You have a cat?’

Matt grins, all the goofy love inside him for his kitten infecting his face. ‘Shuri. Like Black Panther’s sister. She’s too young to be spayed.’

Right on cue, a high-pitched kitten squeak sounds out. ‘I’d better –‘ Matt charges up his hallway. ‘Come in, if you want!’ he says over his shoulder. 

In the guest room - which now houses the adventure playground Matt created for Miaow-zebub - all is peaceful: Miaow sits stock still on the carpet, narrowing his eyes and blinking cat smiles at the black kitten in front of him. She approaches tentatively, and then pounces, and some fairly harmless playfighting erupts.

In the doorway, Matt turns around, contented with this scene, and almost walks right into Corey, who’s standing right behind him and watching the kittens play over his shoulder.

‘Shit! Didn’t know you were there, mate,’ he says in fright. 

Corey wears a rather foolish smile. ‘All good.’

As Matt moves past, back into the hallway, his chest makes contact with Corey’s, brushing past. It leaves Matt’s skin tingling. 

‘Sorry Matt. I take up a lot of space,’ Corey explains.

Matt is too busy blushing to answer.

‘You must be wondering why I’m here. After I withdrew welcome at my place.’

‘You could say I’m surprised to see you. Figured I was the last person on earth you’d want to be neighbours with, let alone visit,’ Matt says, sheepish.

‘The truth is, Miaow-zebub brought me through your orchard. I’m not even kidding. He whined at me to follow him, and then he led me here. Gotta admit, I’m relieved you have a kitten of your own. It means mine is safe from your thieving mitts,’ his eyes sparkle as he says this; he’s teasing Matt.

Matt relaxes a little. He’s game. ‘Oh, you assume, eh?’ he drawls.

‘Don’t go there, buddy. Don’t even think about it!’ Corey laughs. 

When the laughter subsides, Matt fixes Corey with a grave look. ‘I’m so sorry. I keep wanting to assure you that that’s not who I am. Only, it clearly is.’

‘Temporary insanity?’ Corey asks. 

‘Maybe,’ Matt concedes. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t know what came over me. And to think you must have been beside yourself...’

‘All in the past, Matty. We’re cool. I’ve learned a valuable lesson: never to get on your bad side.’

‘Ha!’ Matt snorts. ‘Yeah, don’t fuck with me, not if you love little Fluffy. I’m the most hated and feared cat lady this side of the Avon.’

They giggle, slouching against opposite sides of the hallway, facing each other.

‘Listen, Corey. Stay for a drink? I’ve got a batch of pear cider that’s just come ready this week, and I’d love a live review.’ 

‘Oh, so that’s what that whole orchard’s about? Pisshead!’ he accuses. 

‘I don’t see you complaining. Living room’s that way,’ he leads Corey there and ushers him in. ‘Be there in a minute.’

He unlocks the back door and opens the shed where his dozens of bottles of cider await their fate. And just for a moment, before he picks up a crate, Matt lets himself close his eyes and relish the peace of mind that comes from forgiveness. Yeah, that. Not the way Corey’s cheeks plump up like apples when his impish smile dances across a mouth that seems perennially to be laughing at some private joke. 

With the crate safely deposited on the kitchen bench top, Matt sets about pouring a couple of glasses of his fresh brew. Two perries in hand, Matt walks in the lounge to find the big All Black from next door plucking a Simon and Garfunkel tune on his unused acoustic guitar. He stops and sets the guitar aside when he notices Matt has returned and is watching attentively. ‘You play?’ 

Matt shrugs, and hands him a glass. ‘I managed to butcher the two chords I learned, and thought I’d better leave the others alone. Better off in your hands, from the sound of things.’

‘Psshht. I’m not about to give up my day job. Thanks!’ he nods at his glass, then holds it up to his nose. ‘It smells... like fermented pears. You’ll be relieved to know.’

‘So you can’t smell the poison?’ Matt inquires. Corey snickers. 

Then he suggests a toast. ‘Here’s to being on good terms with your neighbours.’

They touch their glasses together, and savour their first taste of home-made pear cider of the year. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He sits down on the carpet, next to Corey. In doing so, their knees touch. 

‘This is a very good drop. If you keep it coming, I might be able to forgive you one day. But it’s going to take years. And a lot of cider.’

‘Are you saying you want me to destroy your liver?’ 

‘That’s... not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more about you, me, late nights, and a lot of lubricant.’

The heat starts in Matt’s ears and travels into his face. ‘We hardly know each other!’ The effort of keeping a straight face makes his cheeks hotter. 

‘Social lubricant, I mean,’ Corey says quickly, and Matt is convinced there’s a hint of flush in his cheeks too. But it could just be the glow of alcohol settling into his bloodstream. 

Matt replies, one eyebrow cocked. ‘Either way, count me in. If that’s what it takes to get into your good graces.’ He’s never been so forward in his life.

Corey does a double take, his curiosity plain, as thought he can’t quite believe what he’s just heard. ‘Really’, he says, more of a statement than a query. He’s looking at Matt as if with new eyes, as if studying every contour and crevice of his face, every flicker of his eyes.

Matt looks into the glass in his hand, embarrassed. 

When Corey takes another mouthful from his own glass, Matt steals a glance at the man’s throat, Adam’s apple working as he swallows. He opens his mouth to talk, but his voice cracks as he begins, and he has to clear his throat. ‘Hm-hm. I was just thinking, those cats of ours are entirely too quiet. I bet they’re up to something.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Corey agrees, and they get to their feet, Matt leading the way, in search of the feline force, leaving their drinks behind. The kittens aren’t to be found in the guest room, so Matt peers across the hallway into his bedroom. His breath catches: Miaow-zebub and Shuri are asleep together on his double bed, curled up top to tail, looking like a black-and-ginger yin-yang symbol. 

He puts a hand over his eyes. ‘I can’t look. They’re too cute.’

Unexpectedly, the sensation of skin to skin contact is upon him as a thumb and fingers encircle his wrist and guide his hand down, away from his face. Once his arm is hanging by his side, Corey loosens his grip, and moves to take Matt’s hand instead, tucking palm into palm. Again, Matt draws a sharp breath. The palmside of Corey’s hand is warm, and strong, but his grasp is surprisingly gentle. 

‘Yeah, they’re cute,’ he murmurs, squaring up to Matt. For once, there’s not a hint of irony in his expression, just blue-eyed sincerity under the crease in his forehead. ‘You know who else is cute though?’

Just kiss me, you cheeseball! Matt wants to say. 

Evidently, words aren’t necessary. Instead, Corey cradles Matt’s jaw in his other hand, and parts his lips to kiss him. 

It’s a slow, wet tonguing of his mouth and it makes Matt lose himself, wide open to the feel of lips, of tongue, and of beard against his cheek. He slides an arm around Corey, to the small of his back, and pulls his body in close.

‘Heh,’ Corey snickers, his warm breath hitting Matt where his mouth meets his cheek. 

‘Ever tried not being smug?’ 

‘Shhhh. You’ll wake the children.’ He moves his lips in close to Matt’s again, hovering just millimetres away, gazing full into Matt’s eyes all the while, watching, waiting for Matt to take the bait. Two can play that game, Matt reckons, and bluffs, making as if to pick up where they left off. In the end, it’s Corey who breaks first, resuming the kiss with a playful growl. 

With one hand on his back and another on his arm, Matt meets Corey’s heat with equal enthusiasm, and steers him out of the doorway, back through the hall to the lounge, barely pausing the kiss to catch his breath. 

He has Corey up against the wall, knee between his legs, and moves the kiss up Corey’s jaw to his ear, and then trails down his neck, with gentle nips of his teeth that draw gravelly sighs of pleasure from Corey’s throat. 

Impatient fingers are at Matt’s waist, searching for and finding the gap between his jersey and his jeans. They gradually track along the inside of his waistband. The longing that’s been stirring inside Matt all evening finds expression, and he feels his penis stiffen. He tries not to make it obvious that he’s turned on, in spite of the ridge in his jeans that’s pressing against Corey, but ultimately, goosebumps and feverish kisses equally give him away. 

Corey lifts his jersey and the t shirt beneath it, tracking them up his torso, brushing the skin underneath with his hands. Matt reaches over his shoulder and pulls the superfluous garments the rest of the way over his head, and they drop to the floor. He blushes: Corey is looking him over, with a curl in his lip and a slow blink of blond lashes, and Matt isn’t used to being looked at with such brazen lust. Not that he minds, not in this instance, but it sure brings the colour to his cheeks. And with that, Corey takes him by the hips and manoeuvres him around, switching their positions so that now it’s Matt flat who’s against the wall. Corey pulls off his hoodie. Hoorah! Matt rejoices, having idly daydreamed of robbing the man of all that sweatshirting. Corey cups Matt’s jaw in his hands, kissing his mouth again, and quite thoroughly. A rogue hand drops from Matt’s jawline, skimming down his chest and stomach, and over the fly of his jeans. 

‘Can I?’ Corey breathes, mid kiss, and Matt knows to what he refers, offers up an ‘Mmm,’ of assent, and repeats this, louder, as the hand makes contact with his swollen cock, through the thick denim fabric. When Corey runs his thumb along the ridge, it’s just frustrating. He’s being touched, but with all that denim, he can’t feel much. There’s only one thing for it: he covers Corey’s hand with his own and guides it up to the hem of his jeans again. ‘Touch me,’ he urges.

Thankfully, Corey wants exactly what he wants, and starts undoing Matt’s jeans, just enough that he can dip his hand inside, brushing past his abdomen. He makes contact with Matt’s erection, finds the base of it and rubs up the length of him. Once at the tip, Corey draws his foreskin back from the head, and Matt shivers, audibly, from the sensation. With fingers wrapped around him, Corey tugs at him, a slow-growing, matching each stroke below with a flick of his tongue in Matty’s mouth. Matt wants to writhe and buck back into each pump of Corey’s fist. He resists the compulsion but only for as long as he can. 

‘You like that?’ Corey murmurs, raising his inflection as if he doesn’t know the answer, and moving his kisses up Matt’s jawline, nibbles on his ear.

‘Mmm,’ Matty mutters, thrusting into Corey’s palm.

‘How about if I, you know, took you into my mouth?’

Matt thrusts harder.

Corey drops to his knees and works the last few domes through their buttonholes. 

‘Wait,’ says Matt. Already he’s missing the feel of soft lips and face-fur on his cheeks and mouth. ‘Lie down,’ he suggests.

‘I like where this is going.’ Corey walks to the couch, and lays down on it, with Matty following close behind. He tucks his fingers around the waistband of Corey’s trackies and underwear, and makes an ‘up’ motion with his chin. Corey raises his middle up, the better that Matty can remove his pants. They get kicked to the floor, while Matt pushes his own down his legs, and pulls each leghole over his feet. 

He gets onto the generous couch too, but facing Corey’s feet and planting his knees either side of Corey’s chest. ‘This ok?’ he asks, and Corey nods enthusiastically. He wraps his arms around Matt’s thighs, as Matt sinks backwards, resting his arsecheeks on Corey’s face. He lays his long body down Corey’s thick, fuzzily blond torso, propping himself on one elbow, admiring the thick hard cock in front of him. Just before he pops the head into his mouth, to kiss, suck, and take the man deep into his throat, he knows the warm, wet sensation of Corey’s tongue flicking at the entrance of his arsehole. 

*

It’s unusually crowded in here, Matt thinks, waking and seeking to stretch his limbs, but he’s met with obstacles in each direction. There seems to be a big buff body beside him. Yep, it’s a body, fortunately a warm one, and it wraps thick arms like tree trunks around him with vice-like intent. He kicks out his legs, and is met with a chorus of high-pitched, whining protests: Shuri and Miaow-zebub leap from the bed, quite put out. How dare you move, human? They seem to be saying.

‘Mmmmm,’ moans a deep voice, nuzzling into his neck and tickling him with breath. Ahhh, yes. It’s the guy next door. The cheeky bastard rugger-bugger that pilfered his feijoas and his morning rag is now sucking his earlobe and grinding morning wood against his behind. 

Matt’s a little dehydrated and peaky, but that’ll happen after a night of home-brewed cider and sexy fun times. All in all, this isn’t a terrible way to wake up. Beats the shriek of his alarm telling him it’s time for 7am Ashtanga class.

‘Thanks for the cup of sugar, neighbor,’ Corey purrs in his ear, a voice rich and warm like date caramel that sends a thrill down his spine. Matt doesn’t have to look at the guy to know he’s smirking up a storm. 

‘You’ve been saving that one up all night I bet,’ Matt groans.

‘Only since rimming that sweet sweet arse of yours.’ 

‘Yeah, well good. So long as you know that it’s _my_ arse, _my_ subscription to _The Press_ , and _my_ feijoa trees.’

‘See, we were on the same page right up until the feijoas. Remember how they hang over my property?’ 

Matt wriggles around in Corey’s embrace, so they’re face to face. ‘You have a mouth. Ask me nicely,’ he says, grabbing fistfuls of Corey’s thick mane and punctuating each word with kisses, ‘And. I’m. Happy. To. Share.’

‘See, from you, that just sounds like a threat. You fight dirty, cat thief.’

‘You think I fight dirty, you should see me fuck.’ 

A low growl starts deep in Corey’s throat, and he rolls himself on top of Matt, straddling him. ‘Show me. I dare you.’ 

It’s precisely that moment that the cats choose to bound back onto the bed and declare with desperation that they simply must be fed, right this instance, or they will not let up crying until all of the humans’ ears bleed. 

‘Go on then!’ says Matt, nodding toward the door. ‘The biscuits are in the kitchen cupboard, under the microwave. Pet milk in the fridge. Shut the bedroom door on the way back. If you hurry back, you might get to see my downward facing dog.’

Corey scrambles out of bed, unwittingly taking half the bedding with him and almost tripping on the duvet on his way out the door.


End file.
